The Locked Room
by greensight
Summary: Murder Mystery, written for the AR Big Bang. Alan Blunt is dead! A detective gathers the five top suspects - Mrs Jones, the SAS Sergeant, Wolf, Ben Daniels, and Alex - into one room, with the intention of not letting them leave until the killer among them is found...
1. Chapter 1: The Body

This is my fic for the Alex Rider Big Bang! Thanks to Tess and Nem for mod'ing, and all of the other writers and artists involved :D

I really advise you to read this on AO3 (I'm **waterandsilver** over there) as **wolfern** has made some gorgeous art for this fic, which is included in the version posted there. It's been so fun to try writing a murder mystery. Way more difficult than I thought it would be, but still fun.

* * *

 _The Locked Room_  
 **Chapter 1: The Body**

* * *

Alan Blunt was a careful man.

It was the reason he'd lived so long. He was, and had always been, meticulously careful. He had a reputation for leaving no loose ends - for cutting them off, and viciously. Blunt was the longest reigning head of Special Operations, and he attributed it to this.

Yet despite all his care, Alan Blunt was going to die tonight.

Because he had done a great wrong, and Fate was finally catching up with him.

* * *

It was late, gone 10 p.m., and Blunt was still in his office, where he'd been for hours. His old age had not prevented him from working late into the night, or affected his mental stamina in any way. He needed very little sleep, and his wife no longer stayed awake waiting for him to return in the evenings. In fact, Blunt had spent so many hours in this drab grey box of a room that it had occurred to him, sometimes, that it was quite likely that he would die here. A heart attack, he imagined, or perhaps a stroke.

But that was not the end that was scheduled for Alan Blunt, as he would soon discover.

Tonight, the file preoccupying him was one that he had read hundreds of times. He could probably recite it by heart. He knew its ins and outs; there was nothing more to be learned from it. And yet this was the file that, time and again, Blunt found himself coming back to, during these late nights. Especially in the last few months.

It was supposed to be over now. But he was unable to let it go. And who could blame him? The results... they had been like nothing that MI6 had ever seen... they couldn't just let all that potential go to waste. Blunt couldn't let that happen...

His pen seemed to move by itself, jotting down notes.

The digital clock on his desk had just flicked to 10:08 p.m. when the door opened. Pressurised air wheezed out of the hinges, and Blunt glanced up, his brows already drawing together in a frown. To enter his office required a particular code, one which few people knew. He had specifically asked not to be disturbed tonight, and it irked him when his subordinates disobeyed him. It was a sign of weak authority. If he couldn't trust his secretaries to follow instructions as simple as that, how could he trust them with the kind of sensitive information that he dealt with on a daily basis?

But when Blunt's eyes met the figure in the doorway, he saw that it was not, in fact, his secretary.

Blunt was not a man of great movement, but all at once, he was perfectly still. His visitor entered the room quiet as a shadow. The door made no noise as it shut behind them.

"You don't have an appointment," said Blunt.

"I won't be needing one."

And then he was staring down the barrel of a gun.

Alan Blunt had dealt in Death for a long, long time. He had commissioned it and prevented it, analysed it and concealed it. He had gazed into the eyes of countless bodies. Death had been his colleague, walking by his side throughout the entirety of his career, with loyalty that was hard to come by, in these circles.

And he recognised Death, now, as it finally came for him.

There was a panic button underneath his desk, only inches from his fingers. Guards could arrive within minutes. Within less.

But it would not save him. He realised this as he looked into the eyes of his soon-to-be-murderer. There was nothing but grim commitment there. Blunt could tell that they were prepared to deal with the consequences - because they _would_ be caught, and both of them knew it. There was no way that they would get away with this. But they were still here, and they were still going to pull the trigger.

Blunt opened his mouth to ask the obvious questions. _How? Why?_ But they died on his tongue. It occurred to him that he already knew the answers. He didn't know exactly how they had gained access to his office, but with their skills, their connections, it did not surprise him that they had. And he knew, of course, why they wanted him dead. There was no question about that.

He couldn't get away, and there was nothing left for him to solve. His job was done.

And so Alan Blunt simply put down his pen and gazed into the gun's dark black eye, waiting for the end.

* * *

The Detective was the first on the scene.

The body was found with its eyes still open. A single red tear had wept from the bullet wound in the dead centre of the forehead, and trickled down the left cheek. The victim had died instantly, and the blood flow had immediately ceased. The exit wound, however, was messier. He was missing the back of his head, and blood had sprayed onto the wall behind him, marring the pale grey paintwork that had been immaculate for so many years.

When the body was discovered, _rigor mortis_ had not yet set in, but the body had lost much of its warmth - although the Detective had heard that Alan Blunt had been an infamously cold man.

A quick and simple death, he reflected, for a man of such dynastic influence. No gunshot had been heard. The room was quiet and serene. The potted plant on the window-sill was flourishing, its soil still damp from afternoon watering, and the clock ticked steadily away on his desk.

It was hardly the bloodiest crime scene that the Detective had set eyes upon. As soon as the police had received the call - **Alan Blunt, dead! Shot in his office! Murder at the Royal and General Bank!** \- there had been no question that there was only one man for the case. The Detective was, indisputably, Scotland Yard's best. Eyes had widened and whispers had flown as he had walked into the reception of the Royal and General, and the employees of this "bank" had seen a lot that had shocked them, tonight.

Yes, a simple death. But as soon as the Detective stepped into the room, he knew within seconds that this one was a lot more complicated than it looked. The simplicity of the crime scene made it more, not less, difficult to solve. It should have been much, much harder than this, to kill Alan Blunt. The various levels of MI6's security had failed to stop this killer, and the surveillance footage had mysteriously disappeared.

As cameras flashed and forensic experts moved like ghosts in their white suits, the Detective made his way slowly to the body. It was the look on Blunt's face that confirmed it, more than anything. There was not a hint of surprise. He knew his murderer, and he knew them well.

Yes. The Detective was certain.

This was an inside job.

Blunt's chalky, lifeless cheek had come to rest upon the file that he'd been reading. With gloved hands, the Detective carefully peeled paper from skin. When he saw the name on the front of the file, his face darkened.

"What is it, sir?" asked his assistant, who had worked with him long enough to recognise that look.

"We need to find out who Alex Rider is, and locate him straight away."


	2. Chapter 2: The Suspects

A/N: So, I have no real excuse for taking so long to post another chapter. Except that I was dragged into the Real Life fandom, which I would not recommend. Sub-par plot. Waaaaaaay too much drama.

Once again, I advise reading on AO3, where I write under **waterandsilver** , so you can see **wolfern** 's great art!

* * *

 **Chapter 2: The Suspects**

* * *

Mrs Jones was the first to arrive.

She stepped into the room with the grace of a long-reigning queen, looking neither surprised nor uncomfortable. As she cast an eye over the room's set-up, one eyebrow rose.

"Only five chairs? I think you'll find Alan had more enemies than that, Detective. Unless you haven't done your homework."

The Detective offered her a smile, and gestured towards the seats, which had been arranged in neat semi-circle. It was a layout reminiscent of an Alcoholic's Anonymous meeting or perhaps a small session of group therapy.

This interrogation room was buried deep in the bowels of Scotland Yard. It was designed to be as uninteresting as possible, so that its inhabitants would want to get out as soon as they could. There were no windows, no decorations, not even a clock on the wall. Nothing at all that might entertain the eye. There were only the chairs, and the Detective.

"Please take a seat, Mrs Jones," said the Detective. "I assure you that I have done my homework _thoroughly_."

In the twenty-four hours since the body was discovered, nobody in MI5, MI6 or the metropolitan police had gotten much sleep. Countless minds had poured over the facts, the theories, the possibilities. And it had been narrowed down to exactly five people. Five suspects.

Jones looked at him, holding his gaze for a moment, in which the detective got the distinct impression of a lioness sizing up a potential piece of prey, deciding whether it was worth the effort. Then, she simply crossed the room and sat down in one of the chairs. Interestingly, she chose the furthest seat from the door. Trying to show that she had nothing to prove? No need to be close to the exit?

Mrs Jones crossed one leg over another, rested her hands upon her knees, and said nothing more.

* * *

Second to arrive was the Sergeant. The file had contained his real name, of course. But in these circles, in this room, he was, first and foremost, the man who trained soldiers and spies at the SAS compound located in the Brecon Beacons.

The Detective had pondered that title over the last twenty-four hours: the _Sergeant_. In Latin, it meant "the one who serves". To what end had this man served Alan Blunt?

He wore clothes that were both military and smart: combats with a fitted khaki blazer. An array of pins gleamed on his lapel, testimonials to his dedication and loyalty. And yet when the investigators were narrowing down the pool of suspects, during the long and arduous hours of the night, the Sergeant had remained in the pool at each stage. There were reasons that he has been brought to this room. Perhaps not the primary suspect - but a suspect, nonetheless.

The Sergeant paused before stepping across the threshold, glancing back over his shoulder. There was resistance written into the lines of his body language. Clearly, he didn't wish to enter.

"Is someone going to tell me what's going on?"

"Please take a seat, Sergeant," the Detective said pleasantly. "All will be explained in due time."

Still, the Sergeant hesitated. But then he looked past the Detective and caught the eye of Mrs Jones. Although she made no gesture towards him, and he made none towards her, her presence in itself must have been some kind of reassurance, because the SAS instructor took three abrupt strides and took a seat.

The closest seat to the door.

* * *

Third to arrive was the spy. Well, technically, there would be several people in this room who could be considered "spies". But Ben Daniels really was the quintessential spy. A secret agent in his prime: mid-twenties, clean-shaven, alert, fit and good-looking. Moreover, there was an innate kind of earnestness about Daniels, in his body language and the way he talked. He was likeable, and therefore he gave the impression that he was trustworthy. The Detective supposed that this quality must be very valuable in his line of work – in throwing off suspicion.

Daniels was cautious when he arrived; hesitant, like the Sergeant had been. But unlike the Sergeant, he did not ask questions. He undoubtedly had many that he wished to ask; the police officers tasked with bringing the suspects in were under strict instruction to keep their lips _tightly_ sealed. But Daniels was evidently used to this level of secrecy. He stared for a moment, at the room and its occupants, before resigning himself and wordlessly stepping inside.

Of course, as the quintessential spy, Daniels was also intelligent. He had probably already worked out that there was no point in trying to leave... or trying to convince anyone of his innocence.

There was another hesitation when he approached the ring of chairs. Should he sit beside Jones, beside the Sergeant, or straight down the middle? The Detective watched with interest. Daniels' file had been an interesting read. Something about him felt a little too clean. The Detective didn't buy the wide-eyed honesty, not when Daniels had both the skills and the motivation for the crime.

The Detective had already started to suspect that Daniels' earnestness was a façade. Would it would slip, when the pressure began to build? Or would it crack completely?

He took the seat beside Mrs Jones.

* * *

Next to arrive was the solider, and he was the least happy about it.

"No! I want to know what's going on! Get your fucking hands off me! Is this something to do with 'Six? Fucking feels like them… bastards… tell them I said _no_ , already, for fuck's _sake_ —!"

The door opened once again, and the source of the shouting came into view.

Wolf was exactly as his file described. He was the same age as Daniels, and the Detective knew from their files that they used to be rather close, when they were training together. But now, it seemed that they couldn't be more different. While Daniels had learned the art of carefully masking his emotions, Wolf's face darkened as soon as he set eyes upon the room. It was almost refreshing, in a way, for the Detective. Spies could be so hard to read, with their secrets and their lies. Soldiers could grate on him, at times, but at least they were upfront about things.

"What's going on? Who are you?"

"Please take a seat, Wolf. Everything will be explained shortly."

"Ben? Sarge? What's going _on_? What the hell are we all doing here?"

"Just sit down, Wolf," Daniels said quietly. "I'm sure we'll be told what's happening soon."

Wolf's brow drew together with confusion, and his mouth opened again, but the Sergeant cut in across him.

"Sit down, Wolf," he repeated, but with a lot more authority than Daniels, enough to snap Wolf's mouth shut. "Sit down and have some bloody patience, for Christ's sake. I want to know what's going on as much as you do, but we don't always get what we want. You should know that." He glanced briefly at the Detective. There was no warmth in his gaze. "The cops are behind this. It's not a kidnapping. And believe me, if they don't have a damn good reason for dragging us out of our beds in the middle of the night, you'll have to wait your turn to drag them to court, because I'll be doing it first."

Quite a speech, the Detective thought.

It had the desired effect. Wolf still hesitated, for a moment. But then, wincing as if every step pained his feet, he made his way across the room and took his seat beside the Sergeant.

Now, the only chair left empty was the one in the centre of the room. That was very fitting, the Detective thought. After all, the fifth and final suspect was the one who tied them all together.

* * *

At long last, he arrived.

A fairly average-looking teenage boy stood in the doorway to the interrogation room. He wore a hoodie and a scowl.

It was a disarming appearance, but the Detective instantly steeled himself against judging the book by its cover. Blunt's corpse had quite literally been bleeding onto this boy's file, and in the past twenty-four hours, the Detective has memorised every detail of those pages.

This was not an ordinary teenager. This was a venomous snake living in the skin of a child. This was a killer.

"Is somebody going to tell me what's going on?" Rider glanced at the Detective, looking him up and down, before moving onto the more familiar faces in the room. "Ben? Mrs Jones? _Wolf?_ What is this?"

"Sit down, Rider," the Detective said coolly. "Now that you've arrived, we can begin."

The boy stared at him with open suspicion and, already, the first inklings of dislike. "What do you—"

"Just sit down, Cub," Wolf interrupted. "For fuck's sake. We've been here hours already. Just sit down so we can get on with – whatever this is."

"Please, Alex," said Daniels more quietly. "Let's just get this over with, so we can leave as soon as possible, okay?"

Daniels' words persuaded him; the Detective saw it, and took a note of it. Yes, the file had mentioned that there was a bond between them. The Detective would keep a close eye on that. Still, Rider moved with considerable reluctance as he took his place in the dead centre of the room.

Finally, they could begin.

"You are undoubtedly wondering why you've been gathered here so suddenly in the night. Rest assured, the decision to bring you five together was not taken lightly. In fact, many at Scotland Yard do not agree with it at all."

"This is sounding promising," Rider muttered.

The Detective decided to cut straight to the point.

"Alan Blunt is dead."

The effect of those words upon the room was quite fascinating.

Mrs Jones: nothing. Her cool expression did not so much as waver. It confirmed what the Detective already suspected: she already knew. It was hardly surprising, given her connections, although the police had done everything they could to keep it out of public knowledge. The others, however, seemed not to have been aware. The Sergeant: lips parting in shock. Daniels: lips _tightening_ into a hard, straight line. Wolf: mouth falling open, glancing immediately at the other members of the room, as if searching for a bloody knife protruding from one of their pockets.

And Rider: a few rapid blinks, followed by his gaze quickly falling to the floor, hiding whatever emotion they might contain.

"He was murdered last night," the Sergeant continued. "The evidence has been exhumed. The killer had access to resources and information that were only available to certain people. And of those people, an even smaller number had a motive.

"One of you killed Alan Blunt. And none of you are leaving this room until I discover the identity of his murderer."

* * *

Next chapter: the interrogation begins.

(I promise I will solve the actual mystery before we all die of old age.)


	3. Chapter 3: The Alibis

Hi. It's been a while (again). Chapters 1 and 2 have been edited slightly (mostly just changing word flow, nothing major). This fic is more tightly planned now, and hopefully updates will be quicker. Feedback is always appreciated, as usual :)

* * *

 **Chapter 3: The Alibis**

* * *

It was Wolf who broke the silence.

"You're kidding, right?" he said, glancing at the door, as if expecting television cameras to burst through.

"Unfortunately not," said the Detective.

An incredulous breath escaped the soldier's mouth. "This is a joke. A fucking joke. You can't just – just _kidnap_ us like this and bring us to this— where even are we?"

"I'd like to know that myself," said the Sergeant.

"And me," muttered Daniels.

"No," said Wolf, rising from his seat. "No, fuck this. This isn't by the book, and I'm not playing along."

The Detective watched calmly as Wolf made his way to the door. There was no danger of him actually getting out, of course. Even if the soldier did somehow have the superhuman strength to burst through a quadruple-locked steel door, there were a considerable number of police guards on the other side with very large guns.

"Are you quite done?" asked the Detective, after Wolf's attempts to turn the handle yielded nothing. "Or would you like to keep trying until you're blue in the face?"

"Who are you supposed to be, anyway?" snapped Wolf. Sherlock bloody Holmes?"

Out of the corner of his eye, the Detective saw Mrs Jones shift; she was the only one of them who knew him. They had worked together, on a few occasions. But she did not speak to introduce him.

"You don't need to know who I am," said the Detective. "Just that Scotland Yard has put me in charge of this investigation."

"Sit the fuck down, Wolf," said the Sergeant gruffly. "Save your energy and stop making it look like the SAS hires idiots. You're not gonna get through that door."

"Wolf," said Ben Daniels quietly. "I know this isn't ideal. But if we have nothing to hide, why not just go along with it? All he can do is question us."

That made Wolf pause his escape attempts.

"I know you didn't do it," Daniels continued. "And neither did I. Nor Alex. But I don't think we're going to get out of this room until we play along."

The soldier swore under his breath. Then, grudgingly, he turned away from the door.

"I didn't do shit," he said bluntly as he took his seat again. "As soon as you get that through your head, I'm out of here. Okay?"

"As soon as I have identified the murderer, all innocent parties will be released," the Detective agreed.

Wolf's jaw tightened as he crossed his arms and looked away.

"I have to say, though," said Daniels, "Wolf is right. This isn't by the book. This isn't how a crime is supposed to be investigated by Scotland Yard. Isn't this breaking a thousand protocols – putting all the suspects together in one room?"

The Detective inclined his head. "As I'm sure you can appreciate, Agent Daniels, this is anything but a normal crime. When the suspects were narrowed down to the five of you, it was clear that extraordinary measures would need to be taken."

"What, and this is your solution?" said Rider, sounding distinctly unimpressed.

The Detective drew himself up to his full height. "Tell me, Rider. If you were trying to investigate a group consisting of some of the most highly-trained Special sServices operatives in the country, how would you go about it?"

A quiet exhale of understanding from Daniels. "You have them investigate _each other_."

"Precisely," the Detective nodded. "You want to leave this room, Wolf? Comply with the investigation. Listen to the evidence that I will present you. Judge the testimonials of your fellow suspects. _Find the killer_. As soon as that is done, you may leave."

"Very clever, Detective," Mrs Jones said softly. "Very clever indeed."

This, finally, seemed to render Wolf speechless.

"If there are no further objections, then I suggest we begin. The sooner we solve the crime, after all, the sooner you can all return to your homes. A man is dead. I'm sure we all wish to see his killer be brought to justice."

There wasn't exactly a cry of "hear hear". They had all known Blunt, and some of them had even respected him, but it was fair to say that none of them had liked him. Out of the corner of his eye, the Detective saw a particularly sour look on Rider's face.

"Let's begin with alibis. For the sake of British politeness, shall we say ladies first? Mrs Jones, if you would please give us a summary of your activities yesterday evening, from, let's say, 6pm onwards."

"Of course, Detective." Mrs Jones uncrossed and recrossed her legs before beginning. "Let's see… I remained in my office until around seven-thirty. My office hours often vary, you have to understand. It's not exactly a predictable job." She flashed a smile that was probably supposed to be polite, but the Detective thought it had rather too much teeth in it. "At half past seven, I left the Royal and General via the main entrance. On my way out I said goodbye to our receptionist, Rebecca, and then took a taxi to one of my favourite restaurants. After eating dinner, I went home, watched the news, answered some text messages, and… went to sleep. Not an awfully exciting night, I'm afraid, but there you go."

"What time did you go to sleep?" the Detective asked.

"Around eleven, I'd say."

"Whose texts did you respond to?"

"My mother. She lives in a care home in Dublin."

"And what restaurant did you eat dinner at?"

"A pleasant little sushi place quite near to my house. I can recommend the salmon rolls."

"You went there on your own?" asked the Sergeant.

Mrs Jones looked at him sharply. "Yes. I live alone, Sergeant. I have done for ten years now."

An expression of discomfort crossed the Sergeant's face, and he averted his gaze. The Detective understood. The death of Mrs Jones' family was well-known in intelligence circles, but only spoken about in hushed whispers. Such a morbid thing was too awful even for gossip.

"Tell me, Mrs Jones," said the Detective, "Do you hold Alan Blunt responsible for the abduction and murder of your children?"

Mrs Jones' look could have cut glass. But the perfunctory smile remained fixed upon her lips.

"No. I don't. I hold _their murderer_ responsible. You must understand that I worked with Alan for a decade after… after they were taken. There was no reason to blame him, and so I never did."

"But he gave you the mission that got them killed, didn't he? Without his actions, don't you agree that they would still have been alive?"

"No, I'm afraid I don't agree with that sentiment at all, Detective. I chose to advance my career in the direction that I did, and they…" Suddenly, Mrs Jones' eyes fell to the ground, and her voice dropped to barely a whisper, "... they paid the price for my decisions."

A heavy silence fell upon the room. But the Detective wasn't finished with the spymaster yet.

"So you agreed with _all_ of Blunt's decisions? You never doubted his leadership? His choices?"

 _There_. A lesser detective wouldn't see it, but he did. Something flashed across her eyes when her eyes snapped back up. Perhaps not related to her children, after all... but there was _something_ that she wasn't telling him. The Detective was sure of it.

"Of course Alan and I had our disagreements. But it was nothing we weren't able to work past. At the core of our relationship was a deep, professional respect, Detective."

"Hmm." The Detective's focus shifted. "What about you, Sergeant?"

"What about me?"

"What were you doing yesterday evening?"

"Well, I was working. The trainees had a night exercise last night – at Brecon, that is. I was supervising."

"All night?"

"All night."

"And this could be corroborated by…"

"A dozen trainees and three other supervising officers. I'm sure they'd be happy to talk to you."

"And is there any physical evidence of your whereabouts? CCTV? Did anybody see you who wasn't a member of the SAS?"

"'Fraid not."

"That's awfully convenient, isn't it?"

The Sergeant laughed. "Convenient? More like the _entire point_ , pal. Why d'you think the training camp is in the middle of fucking nowhere? If a civilian wandered into one of our shooting exercises… well, then you'd really have a reason to question me."

"As a matter of fact, Sergeant, Scotland Yard has already talked to the trainees and other supervising officers, and they've supported what you've just told me."

"Great. Can I go now?"

"Not quite, I'm afraid. Tell me, Sergeant, how many officers are stationed at your camp in Brecon Beacons?"

A muscle tightened in the Sergeant's door. "Just four. As you're well aware."

"And all of you were on this 'training exercise' last night? The entire camp was busy?"

" Yes . Do you need your ears testing or something?"

"Then why was a phone call answered in your office at 9 p.m. last night?"

A beat of silence. "It wasn't," the Sergeant said slowly. "There wasn't any phone call. There couldn't have been."

"And yet local phone records clearly show that a call was accepted by your number. Even more curiously, we haven't been able to trace the caller, even with our advanced technology."

"Sounds like someone's made a mistake, then. I didn't answer any call, let alone some… untraceable one. Can hardly get any signal out there in that bloody National Park, anyway."

A good liar, thought the Detective. But a liar nonetheless.

"Would you like to go next, Agent Daniels?"

But it wasn't him who answered.

"What's the point in asking these stupid questions," said Rider, "If you already know the answers?" He glanced across at Daniels. "You know what Ben's going to say, and you know what I'm going to say. Why don't you just spell it out yourself, since you clearly love the sound of your own voice so much?"

"Alex," said Daniels quietly, but Rider wasn't going to be stopped.

"No, I'll just tell him, straight up. Last night, me and Ben watched TV, ate dinner, then went to bed. That's it. That's all we did. Neither of us left the house or saw anybody else, so no, obviously, we don't have alibis. Now you can go ahead and slap the cuffs on our wrists, officer, since apparently staying at home makes us all raging murderers, by your definition."

"Wait," said Wolf, frowning, "You live with Ben?"

"Yeah," said Rider. "I've been staying at his for about a year now, ever since…"

He trailed off.

"Ever since your injury," the Detective filled in.

And Wolf jumped on the bait, as the Detective knew he would. "Injury?"

Rider glared. "Wow, thanks for sharing that incredibly personal information without my consent. 'Appreciate it. Yeah, I moved in with Ben after I got shot three times trying to stop an evil billionaire from dropping a cathedral on a bunch of tourists. That pretty much ended my spy career, as you might expect."

Wolf winced, as did the Sergeant. Daniels grimaced, eyes on the floor, and even Jones looked a little discontented, beneath her stoic mask.

"Shit, Cub."

Rider shrugged. "It's alright. I'm dealing with it. You know, in a really sick way, I was actually kind of grateful for it, when it happened. I never wanted to be in that line of work. Blunt coerced me into it, and it took losing a kidney for him to finally let me go. He didn't have any _use_ for me anymore, after that. I was too _damaged_."

"So you had no love for Blunt," the Detective observed. Not that it needed to be clarified. The bitterness in Rider's voice was virtually a confession in itself. Oh, if he had to put money on one of them...

"Nope. No 'professional respect' either. He was an evil piece of shit who didn't have a soul, and yeah, you know what, I won't deny it - I'm glad he's dead. To be quite honest, I think the world is gonna be a better place without him."

Wolf and the Sergeant shared a look. Daniels was massaging his temples, looking extremely tired.

"Are you quite done?" asked the Detective. "Or would you just like to confess to the crime right now? A little earlier than I expected, I must admit, but—"

"Oh, fuck off. I didn't do it. I hated him, yeah, and I might have _wanted_ him dead a few times, like when he sent me on a suicide mission with no weapons and barely any cover. But I wouldn't actually kill the guy. And especially not now. In case you haven't noticed, I've finally gotten the chance to move on with my life."

"The only thing I don't understand," said Daniels, interrupting in a blatant attempt to stop Rider from incriminating himself further, "Is why Wolf is here. Me and Alex – yeah, I can understand why you might think we have a motive to… hurt Blunt. And Mrs Jones and the Sergeant were involved with him in a professional capacity. But why is _Wolf_ being considered a suspect? Is it just because of his link to Alex and me? Because that seems pretty tenuous. Neither of us have worked with K Unit in years, even when Alex was still active."

"I was coming to that, Agent Daniels," said the Detective, "Before Rider's little outburst." He turned to the soldier in question - the only suspect who hadn't yet given an alibi. "You know why you're here, don't you, Wolf?"

"I had nothing to do with it," said the soldier. But he wasn't meeting anybody's eyes, and he wasn't making a scene trying to get out of the room anymore.

"So you claim. But you were there, weren't you? You were at Liverpool Street last night."

" _What?_ " said Daniels and the Sergeant.

"Oh, yes," said the Detective. "You see, Agent Daniels, apart from his killer, Wolf was the last person to see Alan Blunt alive."

* * *

Next chapter: what is Wolf hiding?


End file.
